


Faith by Force

by toodelicatee



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Blood and Injury, Delusions, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Instability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective John Reese, Sex, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 06:38:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6555619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toodelicatee/pseuds/toodelicatee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then, he pulls Harold against his chest, soaking him in tears.</p><p>"I'm sorry," he manages, "I'm so sorry."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faith by Force

**Author's Note:**

> This is a changed username I'm going under now- I used to be WeCanBeHeroes. I deleted a few stories as well, the ones I wasn't happy with. Confines of Terror was one of those fics I chose to get rid of, I wasn't really pleased with the end result. This fic is my attempt at trying to write it better. I lacked a lot of details last time. The plot will be more or less the same. And I've re-used some paragraphs I was fond of.
> 
> Thank you for any feedback. It's so appreciated. It's nice to know what people think. 
> 
> (The title is a reference to this concept I have about suffering and the idea of prayer and god etc. - I'm big on philosophy. It's too much to go into now, but if you're interested I'll tell you in the comments.  
> Lyrics mentioned somewhere are by Damien Rice.)

John realises Finch speaks with a mechanical elegance. Every sentence is like a stanza from a carefully constructed poem. Sometimes he imagines what Harold's voice might sound like, how it might _change_ , with John biting at his neck and moving inside of him. He entertains these fantasies once in a while. They come naturally and he can hardly stop them.  
  
Of course he keeps them to himself. He's had relationships with men in the past but he doesn't know whether Finch has. He won't ask.  
  
They touch when they pass each other in the library sometimes, or on the rare occasion they're both out in the field. It's always accidental and always so fleeting- the slight grazing of fingers or the catching of elbows. Still, it feels important, feels oddly like the beginning of something unexplainable, something that's equally dangerous and sheltered, something both preventable and not.  
  
-  
  
When they finally do kiss, John's a beaten mess. His knuckles are beaten and he spits blood out from the cracks between his teeth. It's after saving a number, some kid up to his eyeballs in debt and on the wrong side of a loan shark. He's safe now though. It's just Reese and Finch together in the library. Harold leans against the table, his voice drenched in panic. He holds John's head up to the light, his touch carrying an inherent caution, a blaring gentleness. But his hands, they're shaking. It's impossible not to notice.  
  
"I thought I'd lost-" Harold's tone is strained. He cuts himself off, unable to finish the sentence, to even dance around the possibility of losing John.  
  
Somewhere in the vastness of the night, the machine is deciding on a new number. Terrorists are plotting a target. People are killing, bullying and destroying- doing what people do. None of that matters, however. Right now is solely about closing distance. It's about coming together. This moment is dedicated to two bodies shredding their weight of loneliness after so many years.  
  
Mouths fuse as though they were meant to, as though it were their only purpose. John moves forward sedately, checking Finch wants it, that he _really_ wants it. John's too good at breaking people to rush into things like this.  
  
Finch reassures him of his consent.  
  
They kiss and tear at each other's clothes like two tired ships finally re-assembled. All their broken pieces fit back together again and it feels beautiful, relieving. John can't quite describe what's pulsing through his brain, but it comes close to redemption. The start of it, at least.   
  
"You won't lose me, Finch," John's breathing hitches as Harold's hands find his hardness, "you won't lose- oh, God," his whisper transforms into a muted moan and Finch is smiling.  
  
Their tentative touches turn hungry in a matter of minutes. The desire that floods between them isn't cold or static; it is full of heat, burning like the mid-summer of Spain. John pushes Harold's hands up against the bookshelf and grinds forward onto him.  
  
"I don't remember this being a part of your job description, Mr Reese. Nor mine."  
  
They both manage a breathy laugh at that. Finch: forever unable to abandon his wit, or predilection for sarcasm.  
  
They begin to remove each other's suits properly now, pausing every so often to touch each other and lock lips. Losing contact even for a second is like losing an anchor, losing footing. It is too much like being at the bottom of the sea bed with stones in your pocket, to drown alone.  
  
-  
  
John reluctantly goes back to his apartment afterwards. He falls back into bed in a dishevelled shirt without bothering to shower. On his back in the semi-darkness, he can still taste Harold's skin. The sweat is salt-water on the back of his tongue. He wonders which of them is the ocean, and which the savage storm. Which of them will be the victim, which the perpetrator.  
  
-  
  
Finch isn't the ghost he believes himself to be. He doesn't come and go like a wave, leaving no permanent marks on the sand. He matters, he affects, although he doesn't seem to know this. He doesn't see the way his warmth lights people up, the way his company fills John's drained skeleton with shivering light.  
  
The world may have pronounced them both dead but they have risen again with only each other for witness.  
  
John wants to tell him this, when they're sat in the library eating Thai food. They've already screwed twice that day. Both times they had cried out the other's name. Finch had apologised immediately. He'd effused about the mistake. _I'm sorry, Mr Reese, I didn't mean to overstep my bounds.  
  
_ "Harold," John rests a hand on his shoulder and lets it linger there, "it's fine."  
  
_It always will be.  
_  
"How long are we going to keep doing this?" Finch asks, giving nothing away- _a very private person, after all.  
  
_ For the longest minute, the world is thick and heavy with smog. Although perhaps it isn't the world that's hazy, maybe it's their perception of it. They have lived life for so long just looking through windows. Everyone they pass on the street is a frozen figure- someone that they could have been, an ordinary number, or a potential one.  
  
"Until you want to stop, Finch."  
  
The construction of John's answer is essential. He selects the word  _you_ , not _we._ There is intention behind the pronoun. He wants Harold to know he doesn't ever want this to stop, that he will happily keep going for a long time. This thing that they have, he is enjoying too much. John can finally feel his heart beating in his chest rather than measly throbbing.   
  
"I'd like to carry it on, Mr Reese, if you don't mind."  
  
John smirks, "OK, Finch, whatever you say."  
  
-  
  
It's a Tuesday when Harold goes missing, happens completely out of the blue, which is what guts Reese even more. He finds the crushed spectacles in the library, Bear sedated, and the place ransacked. There are signs of a struggle, and a little blood to suggest Harold was knocked out to limit his resistance.  
  
John knows this isn't Root. He just knows. It's too sloppy, too hurried and violent for even her sake. She is cool and collected, she plans way in advance. This is the work of men- stupid, brutal men. John guesses immediately they are men who want answers concerning the machine. Maybe ex-government, something along those lines.  
  
_And what those type of men will do to get what they want..._  
  
John trashes the entire place, his breathing ragged and volatile, coming out somewhat choked. He punches a wall with his bare fist, gritting his teeth and ignoring the feeling that he's broken a bone. Inside his chest his lungs feel like they've collapsed, caved in on themselves and given up. This feels like hell, like staring into a mirror and watching your reflection shatter into shards. Seven years bad luck coming right at you.  
  
This feels like asking God for help then realising He's the bastard you're moulded in the image of; He doesn't give a shit if this is killing you.  
  
And this is _killing_ him.  
  
-  
  
Six days go by before they find Harold. With each one that passes, John's sanity begins abandoning him more and more. He has terrible images, cold and stark and clear that flash through his mind. When he puts his head down at night- on the rare time he'll allow himself rest- he dreams about what might be happening to Finch. He sees bullets and blades and blood.  
  
Always, blood.  
  
-  
  
It starts to hurt to the point of being unbearable on the final day. John has hit so many dry walls he has lost count. Somehow he's tricked himself into believing that this is his fault, that whatever's happening to Finch is his responsibility. After all how many lovers has he watched suffer? Everyone close to him is bound to get hurt and this is why he should keep people at arms-length, why he should forbid himself from attachment. But still, he gets close to someone, still he falls hard and deep.  
  
He imagines Finch stripped and slashed by sharp knives, knuckles connecting against his already crippled body. He imagines this all and his heart begins to break.  
  
-  
  
"I'm sorry," he says to the walls.  
  
They don't say anything back.  
  
"Could I have stopped them?" he punches something, pulls his fist back to find it bleeding. He doesn't bandage it, "Could I have saved you?"  
  
-  
  
Carter and Fusco are working at his command to find Harold. They have other jobs to be getting on with as well, but John demands they put them aside immediately. Finch is to be their only focus from now on.   
  
Carter finds John in a fight with some stranger on the street.  
  
"They're not going to help us find Finch now are they?"  
  
The question is rhetorical but Reese knows the answer, "No."  
  
He just needed to hurt somebody, so he is less alone in his grief.  
  
"You need to pull yourself together so we can find your friend, d'you hear me?"  
  
Friend doesn't sound right as a way of describing Finch; it sounds weak, sounds feeble. Carter's his friend, Fusco's his friend.   
  
She should have used the term parner? Or maybe driftwood? How about lover?  
  
-  
  
In the end it's Fusco who finds him. He calls John and says lowly down the line, "I've got him."  
  
-  
  
The warehouse John pulls up ouside of is abandoned, derelict almost. Everyone must have scattered upon hearing the sirens.   
  
"John, I think you better stay in the car. The ambulance is on its way, OK?" Carter says, rushing out of the building. She has someone else's blood all over her pants and right away Reese knows whose. He feels ill, the sunlight dying on his shoulders.  
  
"Like hell," he goes to move forward but she catches his wrist.  
  
"I'm serious John; it's not a pretty picture in there, I think you'd be best waiting for-"  
  
He ignores her. The both of them know nothing on Earth could prevent him from going in there, even if he feels the confines of fear wrap around his entire body with every step that he takes. Even if his mind is twisting and coiling like wire. Even if he's wondering how he is supposed to breathe.  
  
Fusco is on his knees in the centre of the room, the limp and battered form of a man rests across his knees. As Reese approaches, an invisble hand seems to crawl its way down his throat and grapple for an organ. It find his heart and starts to wrench it free. He knows the man in Fusco's hold is Finch. He tries to kid himself that it isn't, that Finch is somewhere else, somewhere safe. But his mind is too cold to let him believe the lie.  
  
The sight is as repulsive as Carter insinuated. Finch's top half his naked and pale like freshly fallen snow, a blank canvas splattered by lilac bruising and thick red gashes that stain the detective's suit. There are burn marks in the spaces where he has not been beaten and cut. John feels unsteady on his feet as he gets closer. His whole world is falling apart the more he stares. Even at this distance, he notices the scald marks on his hands and feet. Nothing has ever been more difficult for John than approaching this brutal scene, but he knows he must carry on walking. He can't let Finch be alone in this. No.  
  
Fusco glances up with an ill-look on his face, "I'm sorry I called you- I..." he sighs, "I didn't expect this."  
  
John shakes his head. How does he say it? How does he say that this is exactly what he was expecting? That everything he has ever loved has always suffered and Finch is no different. He's not immune to the curse John carries in his bones.  
  
When he gets closer and sees the wounds more clearly, he staggers. His legs waver beneath him and he stumbles forward, crashing to his knees. He doesn't even care if they break beneath him. Not now.  
  
"Is he cold?" he manages a whisper. He knows that if he uses his speaking voice it will crumble and he will cry. He doesn't want to do that, not until he's alone, or until Finch's safe.  
  
Fusco rests a palm on Harold's forehead, mindful not to aggravate the wounds there. He nods, so John takes his suit jacket off and begins to wrap it around the beaten body of his lover. He says, "Give him to me- you go wait for the ambulance with Carter."  
  
This is his small attempt at kindness. He doesn't want Fusco to have to be here a second longer, absorbing this scene.   
  
When the two of them are alone, just Harold and John, the latter begins to undo the ropes around Finch's wrists and ankles. He bites hard on his lip to keep it together- a futile effort.

Then, he pulls Harold against his chest, soaking him in tears.  
  
"I'm sorry," he manages, "I'm so sorry."  
  
-  
  
The paramedics arrive in a frenzy. At first, John will not let them take Finch away. These people are strangers after all, and strangers have hurt his partner too much recently. In the end, it's Carter who persuades him. She puts a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"John, you need to let go so these people can fix him. He needs them right now, not you."  
  
It's blunt but true. John finally acquiesces, releasing his grip. Carter takes Finch's head in her hands, cradling it prudently while the team put an oxygen mask on his face. They load him onto a gurney and are away in an instant. John watches the fading figures. A useless prayer sits in the bottom of his belly, along with anxiety and a whole host of dangerous emotions he doesn't have time to tap into right now.  
  
"Do you need a ride?" Carter asks him.  
  
"To the hospital?"  
  
"Well I wasn't planning on taking you anywhere else," she tries a smile, light, to diffuse the tension. It fails miserably, appears somewhat awkward and clumsy on her face. Like it doesn't belong.  
  
-  
  
In the car ride, both detectives are silent. It's John who breaks the quietness.  
  
"Do you think he'll be OK?"  
  
"He'll make it. I know it."  
  
Carter says this slowly, as though she's trying to reassure herself of this as well.   
  
"I know he'll make it," John agrees, "but will he survive the aftermath?"  
  
He's talking about the endless nightmares, the memories that will live on. The scars that are like a map across his body of everything they ever did to him.  
  
"You know what I think?" Fusco states, eyes fixed on the road ahead, "I think Mr Glasses is pluckier than you give him credit for. Hell, anyone who can withstand a week of torture like what we saw back there, without giving in, can deal with the fallout."  
  
John glances out the window. There are some children playing with a football down an alley. Part of him wants to shout at them, chastise them for not mourning what has happened back at the warehouse. Of course they know nothing about it, but John thinks that they should. Everyone should.  
  
He wishes he didn't.  
  
-  
  
In that hospital room, John trembles. He watches the uneven rise and fall of Finch's chest. The breathing is ragged and volatile, assisted by machinery. A mask still covers the man's face. John thinks that he should have one too; breathing has never been as hard as this. Colourful wounds are stark against the white sheets that swallow his partner. Everything is just too much.  
  
He sits in the empty stool by the bedside. There are wires pumping so many drugs into Harold's body, and John runs his fingers over them. He wonders what each one is for.

His fingers then find their way into Finch's hair, where he cards them through slowly, lovingly, as though this were a casual situation, as though they had just made love.

As though things were fine.  
  
Reese leans forward, stopping only when his lips are a centimetre above the other man's, "Forgive me."  
  
Right now, that is the only thing that will bring him closure, the only thing that will stop the shame from gnawing his body through and through. To beg his lover and gain his pardon. He knows it sounds ludicrous. _I'm sorry about the blood you've spilled; it's my fault, I damn everyone I love- there's a curse in my bones, transferred now to you.  
_  
A wicked voice sounds in the back of his head, _"You're right. This is your doing."  
  
_ "Stop," he says to the dead air, "please. I'm dying."  
  
This is true. There is no affliction he has endured that comes close to watching Harold's body quiver and ache. Since John was a child, he has known that life is like rain. Dirty and acidic, the hours eating away at you until you're very flesh is sore to touch. Until your skeleton is picked clean, leaving nothing but the damage. Only ruin, pure and inescapable.  
  
This concept comes back to him now, against his will. He remembers it as he kisses Harold lips, which are dry and split.   
  
-  
  
The hum of the machinery keeps John awake for hours on end. Only when it is overwhelmed by the sound of a radio playing does he stand up.  
  
He asks a nurse, "Could you turn that music off?"  
  
_Cold, cold water surrounds me now-_  
  
"Don't you like the song?" she smiles, curious.  
  
_And all I've got is your hand-  
_  
"I don't care about the song. I just don't want him to be disturbed," he rests a palm on Harold's chest, "He's supposed to be resting."  
  
She nods, understanding.  
  
"He's a lucky man, your friend."  
  
John nods.  
  
"When he first arrived the doctors said it'd be a struggle for him to pull through, but he's doing so remarkably well."  
  
John nods again.   
  
"He must have something worth living for. His body's fought tooth and nail to survive."  
  
John bows his head, lets the nurse's words fill him up. They're the only comfort he's found in days. She must notice his thoughtful expression, the sadness etched in it.  
  
"I'm sorry," she smiles wide at him, "I'm just a nosy conversationalist who doesn't know when to keep her mouth shut. I'll let you and your friend have time to yourselves. I imagine you want to be the first person he sees when he wakes up."  
  
Just as she's about to leave, John corrects her, "He's my partner, actually. My lover."  
  
Her grin broadens even further, "I kind of already knew that."  
  
He gives her a confused look.  
  
"Well," she explains, "it is pretty obvious from the way you're clutching onto his hand for dear life."  
  
John looks down. He hadn't even noticed. Maybe he's holding it too hard.  
  
-  
  
Ironically, the only time Reese steals himself away to shower is the time that Finch wakes. He comes back to find a frenzy of doctors and nurses checking vitals and asking questions. He waits patiently at the door, too terrified to enter.  
  
_What if he really does blame me?  
  
_ "Right now you are fine; you can have some time with your friend," the doctor concludes, "but I'll be back to check on you in an hour."  
  
"He's my partner, actually," Finch's voice is hoarse and strained. It sounds sore. But Reese smiles, for the first time in ages, he actually smiles.  
  
With much trepidation, he makes his way into the room. Harold looks wrecked by sheer pain but he hides it well, masks the agony behind tired blue eyes.  
  
"Mr Reese-"  
  
But before he can continue with the formality, John has wrapped his arms full around his neck and is holding him in a strong embrace. He supports the back of Finch's head with his hand and finally, lets everything out- finally breaks down.  
  
"I'm sorry I-" he chokes on the sobs, "I didn't-"  
  
"Stop," Harold says firmly, "I don't want you to apologise for anything. That will only cause me greater distress. Please, Mr Reese. No blame on either of our sides. What happened to me is not your fault. It was out of both of our hands the second they decided they were going to abduct me."  
  
And John believes him, for who could not believe that voice.  
  
"I'll never let them get to you again," he pulls away, "no one. Just us."  
  
The second the words leave his lips he knows they are a promise. Possibly the only promise John has ever made that he's certain he won't break.  
  
"I know, Mr Reese. I know."  
  
-  
  
It takes time for things to get better. Sometimes they feel like they never will.

Finch's wounds are raw, even when he is discharged from the hospital. John will hold his hand and it will cause the man to wince. Even through thick bandages, and despite the fact they are recovering, the scalds still hurt. So do the bruises and lacerations. 

-  
  
The first time he sees Finch's body naked (when he's helping him bathe) it's brutal. John's heart finally, fully breaks. The wounds are so severe, so deep and real, that it takes all Reese has not to throw up. He keeps all of this down for Harold's sake and lowers him into the tub.  
  
"I can't believe this," the older man stammers, ashamed.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You never signed up for this. Looking after me like I'm some incapable child. Leave, Mr Reese. Leave right away. Come back when I'm less useless."  
  
Reese has re-learnt tenderness. He knows about soft touches and kind words, about lasting kisses and reassuring whispers.   
  
"This is what I want to be doing, nothing else, Harold."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"You know why."  
  
Finch sighs nevertheless, "How can you be enjoying this? How can you love someone you have to nurse? How can you love me? In fact, don't answer. I don't want to know. It's a lie. It's all a lie."  
  
John knows better than to argue in these moments. Since the week of hell, sometimes Harold's sanity is delicate. He sees things that aren't there, tells Reese there is someone in the apartment when there isn't. He became convinced a few days ago that Carter and Fusco had been taken and tortured the same way he had, so convinced that John actually had to phone them and tell them to come over so Harold could relax.  
  
They'd arrived of course, in a hurry.  
  
"Hey, I'm OK," Carter had said warmly, touching Finch's shoulder and kneeling beside his wheelchair, "I'm fine. No one's gonna get to me."  
  
"Yeah or me," Fusco gave him a nod, then turned to Reese, "is he all right-"  
  
"He's been through more last week than most people go through in a lifetime. He's fragile," John explained, "he's got a therapist coming round next week. She's gonna help him."  
  
"But you're both in danger," Finch had exclaimed, staggering to his feet. Luckily Carter was swift in her reaction and she had managed to catch him as his knees buckled and he collapsed.  
  
"Come on, Harold," she half-lifted him back into his chair, "there's nothing to worry about. Fusco and I are both OK, nobody's coming after us."

"Maybe you should both stay here for the night, in case they do have eyes on you," Finch refused to let it go, "they've been coming into this apartment every night and setting traps."  
  
They both looked at Reese, who shook his head sadly, telling them it was just the poor man's delusions. 

Fusco appeared a little saddened by it all. He bowed his head, "If that's what'll make you feel better pal, I'll stay for a while."   

Finch tried to nod but his body wouldn't allow. "Yes, yes, please do. You must. It's the safest option," he wheeled himself around to face Carter, "and you, detective? You need to stay."

"Harold, I can't-" she'd began.

"We'll bring your son; he can stay too, he'll be safer here. I'll get him a car."

"Harold," she took his hands in her's, "I promise you, I'll be fine. If you'd like I'll  keep phoning you so you know I'm safe."

"But detective," his voice trembled,  "they're after you and if what happened to me happens to you, I couldn't live with myself."

She placed a hand on one side of his face and kissed the other, "I promise you, Harold, I'll be fine."

Finch glanced over at Reese, who nodded, "She'll be OK, Finch. We'll keep tabs."

-  
  
John helps Harold into bed, and slips into the sheets beside him.  
  
"You asked me yesterday how I could love you. Harold, how could I not?"  
  
Finch's voice is cracked like a sob, "I don't want you to feel tied to me, to feel burdened. I want you to have a lover you deserve- I don't think that's me."   
  
John sighs, wraps his arms around him and mindfully pulls them together, "I'm still only for you. I'm always for you."  
  
And he can't tell for certain, but John thinks that is the moment Harold accepts his love, accepts it as something he's worthy of.   
  
( _Since John was a child, he has known that life is like rain. Dirty and acidic, the hours eating away at you until you're very flesh is sore to touch. Until your skeleton is picked clean, leaving nothing but the damage. Only ruin, pure and inescapable._

Only now does he understand that although unavoidable, the damage can be fixed. Things can be mended, even at a glacial pace.)  
  
They fall asleep side by side and in the morning, things begin to hurt a little less.  
  
-  
  
Things happen after this, but I think that we shall stop telling the story  here. They are good people, despite what they may have come to believe; they deserve a gentle conclusion. They've both been pushed through enough rough waters- let them rest on the shore. To carry on, would only be beating a dead horse.  
  
-  



End file.
